


ragged, everywhere

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cock & Ball Torture, Developing Relationship, F/M, Humiliation, Masturbation, POV Solas (Dragon Age), Public Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: He has been trying to not admit that he is thinking of her, and only of her, for hours. Playing over that moment again and again in his mind. Tracing every feature of her face as it looks to him with… disgust.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Inquisitor, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: False Fruit [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	ragged, everywhere

**“the jackdaws in all their ragged black shinery - part Watch me, part Close your eyes - and everywhere the summer roses” (Cloud Country, Carl Phillips, Speak Low)**

\--

Sinking into the grass below the crumbling wall, he has to catch his breath a moment because this was a place of ethereal beauty, in its time. A place of joined murals and the gentle feeling of watching blackbirds flit among the vines. And it disorients him, extraordinarily, to see it here. On the ground. Because when he last snuck around that corner, it was occupying the space where the jackdaws circle now, high above his head, and he wars with a feeling of imagined vertigo at walking in this place again.

She puts her hand on his back.

“Are you ill, Solas?”

He shakes his head, short, and then rolls his shoulders back stiffly.

“I am disturbed by a memory of what I once encountered here in the Fade. The Veil is stuttering, weak. We must find the artifact of my people.”

Pangara nods, looks hurt — he realized it a moment too late, the slipped phrase - and she moves away from him. He straightens and reaches out to stroke against the Veil, searching for a place that emanates a solidity in the Veil. Though he had marked this spot in his mapping of the overall structure, he had not erected this node himself. But even through the thousands of years he remembers: one life lost in installing this point in secret. Three more lost in holding the door while the Veil’s strength grew. Four freed Elvhen who made their stand against the false gods, and knew their liberty in death.

He stands tall. She calls to him and he finds her in an alcove behind an old wood door, something newer that indicates these ruins were adopted for some purpose after their fall. He shows her again how to fold the Fade through the Veil and around the orb like a smothering blanket, and then they work together to drag threads of Veil through the mooring points, securing the pieces of the Fade that have started to bulk through. This will not hold. He feels the now-familiar thrust of panic rising in his chest. There are too many pieces missing. The structure has degraded. Will he have enough time?

The fall in her face, her hurt, haunts him that night. He has realized that she shows him these things very intentionally. Not just him, no. All of her companions. She is aware of the way in which she should place her words, her carriage, and her disposition to make these strangers feel comfortable. Valued. She is a natural leader. Or she has been taught well, he considers. She is careful in how she dispenses her appreciation, her need, and her praise.

And how she communicates her pain.

He invokes this last so often that it is shameful.

He groans into his arm flung over his face.

Because thinking of her face. Her lips. The green of her eyes. The quiet and certain intelligence challenging him there. Even twisted in pain.

He pictures her.

He is _awake_.

He had chosen not to sleep in the tent he would be asked to share with Varric. Finding a place under the vine-woven stones of the old walls of Vir Sul, he had shrugged off his coat and leaned against the wall, intent on revisiting the moment of the palace’s fall if he could find such an ancient echo in the Fade.

But he is painting in his mind the shade of her cheek, he is adding shadow to the lid of her eye, he is trying to capture the lace of oil in her hair after three weeks’ travel.

He keeps his eyes shut as he reaches below his breeches, takes his length in hand, hard, aching, although he should not. He should wait until he can attend to this as just the rote maintenance of a body afflicted with lust and longing. Picture her as he has before: in the moments he has made her smile, or the glowing moments he has impressed her; or when she has mystified him and he has found himself drawn to watch her work two people through an argument. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, studying the way she fights for compromise or judgement.

He should not, feeling like filth, indulge himself with raw, torturous touches. Should not, after a moment’s restraint, prime his middle finger against his thumb and then, taking a shaky, long breath, flick his testes hard, hard enough to make himself give a muffled cry and hiss, doubling over the sloshing daggers of pain that stab up through his gut. He should not groan with the twisted pleasure of indulging his mind’s desire to fixate on the downturn of her mouth, the draw in her brows, the slightest snarl of disappointment in her cheek. He is sorry, but he is too proud to tell her. And he knows this would make her scoff, dismissive. No patience for his pride, for his willingness to hurt and injure — obstinate.

He has been trying to not admit that he is thinking of her, and only of her, for hours. Playing over that moment again and again in his mind. Tracing every feature of her face as it looks to him with… disgust.

He cannot stop now. He grasps himself in his palm and his mind goes mercifully blank, all his feeling concentrated in the bulging of his cock in his grip. Hurriedly, he licks his hand from wrist to fingertip and yanks himself, rhythm tight and hard and quick and _get it over with_. He pulls his sweater and then his shirt up away from his stomach. Comes with a slamming, blinding heat. Finishes his spend, pumping weakly, grimacing and shuffling, already, with his other hand in his pack to take a cloth and wipe the creamy mess from his skin.

He should have come into the handkerchief, or the grass. The stickiness is cool in the night air. Peering down, he sees a white stain lining the hem of his bunched sweater.

He huffs, and tries to calm the spark of irritation. He will launder the sweater in the morning. It is no matter.

But he knows he simply wants no reminder.

He settles himself back into his breeches, pulls his clothing roughly into place. Rests his arm back over his eyes. He tries, as the whisper of magic emanates from around the corner, to enter the Fade without the vision of her eyes tilted to look up at his; without remembering grasping her hips and turning her. He tries to not allow his mind to drift to the last time they met in the Fade, and to the fire in her lips.

He focuses his mind. He tries to seek something ancient, something that is not heat and heartbeat and there in his mind — always, her lips quirking at him, there behind his eyes.


End file.
